


Necessity Of Addiction.

by fearless_seas



Series: The Three Trials of Jacky Ickx. [5]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Apologies, Death, Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Falling In Love, Fear of love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Addiction, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Second Person, Phone Sex, References to Depression, Sex, Slow Dancing, Touching, emotional fragility, implied masterbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14607981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearless_seas/pseuds/fearless_seas
Summary: Ronnie Peterson tells him that he is beautiful, and what Jacky Ickx wants more than anything is to believe him.





	Necessity Of Addiction.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations at the end, if needed. If you need to contact me my Tumblr is @sonofhistory or @pieregasly. Enjoy.

          Never again. You tell this to yourself, beg yourself: never again. Please. Deep within you, you know that it is a promise you can never keep. But he? He was different. He was never a stranger, the two of you were never rare to one another. He might be sitting at the bar nursing a drink with Niki Lauda and James Hunt seated on either side of him jostling about. It is still that October and you’re rubbing your hands across your face. The two other men leave, stools scraping on the floor and their fingers brushing making him all alone. You notice how sweet his face blurs then concretes into a light smile or charming smirk. You rise and order another drink. Swallowing sharply, you feel the sting go straight to your eyelids. 

          “Hello, Jacky.”

          You pause, recess because you believe he is mistaken; he called you by your name. Jacky. Not other Jacky (or _autre_ Jacky), baby-face or Ickx. Just Jacky and nothing else. This catches your attention, turning to him he is already grinning at you as if he'd prepared it beforehand. It is not as Jochen did, nothing at all, or even as your Frenchman did with everything at once. His lips are small, round, and you find you quite liked the sound of yourself on his tongue. Their back is tossed over the seat and you’ll learn later he fidgets constantly. When you blink and don’t reply, he shrinks in his seat but not as if he is a afraid of you, he is only shy. His cheeks turn merlot, “I’m Peterson--”

          “--Ronnie,” you interrupt, “Ronnie Peterson.” He seems pleased and the bar lights trifle with the blonde in his hair. You believe his eyes are a hazel until you are sitting next to him and he is observing you. They are dark blue, the color of most beautiful things in life. You are already making a mental note to remind yourself to stay far from him; you’ve lost too many boys with blue eyes and dreams. No matter what: there is something very different about him. A purity you’ve never witnessed. “Where did your friends go?”

          He has a difficult time with English but he is a fast learner. He has a silent defiance that molds him like rough clay. He blushes, the tips of his ears are magenta through straw like hair. “To room,” you chuckle and decide to never ask again because you already have put the pieces into place. Ronnie was not a rookie, neither was he completely ground, he has only a few years of experience in his shoulders. You both can sit in silence and be completely comfortable with simply the presence of each other. He gives off a sweet air like flowers poking through cracked city pavement. “Why are you alone?”, you could believe he’s being rude but he speaks gently as though his voice were a quiet pillow for your tired mind to rest upon.

          You shrug but do not reply. _I am mourning_. The room will start spinning soon enough. He eventually bores at you cold in the face. But he is searching for something profound and you realize the sense of vulnerability you once had is gone. You feel almost like a science experiment and he, studying the biology that makes you. They are stitching up the areas of pried skin underneath your surface. You know you will never be able to look at yourself the way he is looking at you right now. “Your eyes…”, he mumbles drowsily. You’ve never thought anything of them before but he clearly is now. Cinnamon toned and you have convinced yourself they are utterly souless. But he is watching you timidly as though you hold the world in them. Nobody has ever seen at you like this. “They are sad, " he said, "Jacky, why are they sad?”

          You excuse yourself and place whatever part of yourself you let out of the box back in. He follows you in vision as you leave and you tread out of the door. You don’t rake back when you are gone even as you wanted to.

          The end of the 1973 season was winding down. Although he retired, Jackie occasionally visits the Tyrell garage and speaks a few lame words with Ken Tyrrell. You trace him out of the corner of your eye and he notices you too but the both of you know the two of you are hurling through time and space expecting a beautiful collision. You were just not meant for the same universe. You step into the Lotus garage, tread past the greasy mechanics and to your unexpected reaction Ronnie is standing tense at the end of the walkway with his hair brushed up neatly over his forehead.

          “We signed your new teammate,” Colin Chapman hummed smally. Ronnie was taller than you imagined now that he standing next to you, he towers over you without intending domination. You shake his hand, sense the soft palm of his fill yours. It will not be the first or last you will ever feel him. Ronnie was there for a few races until the season ended and he was signed for the next year. He was fast, so very fast. Smooth too. Ronnie attempts to communicate with you sometimes, leaves his foot up on the car and lays over like he’s lain naked for an artist.

          Niki slide his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, “Ronnie talks about you a lot."

          “Why?”, you were not a rude person. You are frank, you are succinct and that makes all the difference. Maybe that is why you respect the Austrian, because he of all people understands you.

          Niki shrugged, “You are fast, he is too. He does not want to pussy-foot you--I think he should if he can.”

          Now that Jacky thought it, he found all the times that Ronnie should’ve passed him and didn’t. You throw your cigarette to the ground, “Let him pass me.” You willed him to try.

          After months of careful avoiding, Ronnie eventually gets tired of examining you from across the garage without words and catches your wrist before you head out of the door. It is not aggressive, the two of you are alone and the stiff tension in your shoulders dissipates. His hands despite driving are soft and his bitten nails cuff the veins beneath fragile skin. “Have I done something wrong?”, the mellow, tender highlight of his peachy cheeks warms you.

          You rip your arm away, “No, Ronnie, you have not.” But you leave out of the door and leave him behind. You talk tough and say that you are not afraid. Jacky Ickx is not fearful of a thing; that is why he does not wear a seatbelt, right? Sheltered is the truth: you are frightened because you cannot stand the idea of moving on. You will dwell on the past, stay with Francois because you will not abandon the beautiful, tiny pieces of him behind.

          At another party you catch a sight of him across the room. He is chatting with Mario Andretti with a simper on his visage as the other is animated into a story. You? You linger at the corner of the room and crave a smoke. But you pretend not to notice, not to see how they watch you when your back is turn, how a quiet plea is weighing down their bottom lip down. You’re out on the balcony with a cigarette, holding it and allowing the smoke from your lips to drip against the navy sky above.

          “Are you alright?”, you revolve and Ronnie is standing nervously rubbing his hands together in his lap.

          “Fine,” you lie and scrape another puff of the cigarette.

          They come closer, “You smoke a lot.”

          “And?”, you fire back and he appears a little hurt at your tone so you melt and fake a smile so that he is tricked into believing you were initially joking. He is gentle when his hand curls around the ledge next to you and you follow him from the corner of your eye. He thinks, perhaps he hides it well, but he doesn’t. And just as you can read him, he is reading you when you are silently standing together suffering. He can witness the jaded circles ringing your eyes and the weak scars too afraid to be heard. He’ll witness the pain in your acting and he will do the same. You can see it: he knows that you are broken.

          “There must be a reason for it,” he admits, tips his head to the lateral as he prods you in the side.

          You brush him off even though he is right. You smoke because it is the closest thing you have left to Francois.

          A month later he tugs you to your feet when nobody is paying any attention. “How about a dance?”, it is innocent and the creases of his eyes convince you that he means well. You do just that: you dance and he has his hands on your lower back as though he knows not to hold you too close. The slow heartbeats mingle in between the two of you and Ronnie’s hands are agilely pressed atop of your fabric skin. Their denim eyes twinkled not with lust or desire; it was a reticent reassurement as if he was whispering: _do not worry, Jacky, I have you_.

          You cannot say anything more than: _please, do not hold me so close, I am dangerous as wildfire_.

          You both forgot the steps and all the words of the song. You can identify yourself, while you are dancing with Ronnie, situated at the piano with Francois’s lips on your neck and his hands on the piano. You end up pushing the Swede away but he doesn’t chase after you and you think you should be happy because it is better for you. But it isn’t. It is not better. You leave him alone.

          A week later, he confronts you as you are slipping your racing uniform over your arms. “Why are you frightened, Jacky?”, he is standing so close you can feel his breath and how your hands are shaking in the spring weather. He doesn’t wait for answer, only grabs your hands and cups them between his own as if he is hugging you from a safe distance away. You want to explain to him everything.

          “I am scared to touch happiness.”

          “Why?”, he presses for your concern and not his own stupid curiosity. _It is always taken away._ You will revel in the magnificence of what could of been instead of recognizing what you hold in front of you was nearly cheated out of you from fear. 

          That is why you are so guarded; because of the people you’ve loved. If you do not love, you cannot ever lose and you also will not live. His hands are placed on your shoulders, you stared back into his eyes as he peered into yours and you admire the way he made you feel. You are so close you can feel their weight through the palms, his words were foreign but very clear. Aged you are, and he, so full of life. He could’ve kissed you then, but he didn’t and it is not difficult to tell why. He thinks you’ll run away. You might’ve. He gives you mini innocent touches often but never goes any farther. He may button the collar of your overalls or when he leans over to grab something he’ll make sure that his lips brush the shell of your ear. It makes shivers of pleasure run down your spine. It is not the first time another has made you feel this way.

          It was inevitable. He tries kissing you eventually. He has his sunglasses on guard and the sun is coming through the trees. It is the late afternoon and your arms are touching. His fingers brush the loops of your pants and then his lips are cradling your temple. The first time you wiggle away, hop off and part him in the dust. The second time you only flinch. The third it lingers longer than it should and you allow his hand to cup your hips. It is the delicacy. His touches are not urgent against your fraying skin or demanding, he is so gentle, so fair. But then he goes too far (for you) and tries to kiss your lips.

          “I cannot,” your face is deviated from his lips and his mouth lands at the corner of yours.

          Ronnie doesn’t look disappointed. He only nods slowly, smiles softly with his eyes and slips away. He is saying: _it is okay, Jacky_. It is the greater relief in the world, to be understood and heard. You can spend extended moments not speaking and come away knowing more than sentences could ever convey to each other. Nothing stops him, however, from shifting his hands over the curve of your spine as you walk beside him or grabbing your waist and plucking you closer when you are sitting next to him. Even after half a year, you are still subtly rejecting him. The bartender turns around and the world pauses, he snaps to you and communicates with his eyes before trying to kiss you again.

          You back away. Turn your back on him. “I am not ready.”

          Again, he says, “I can wait.”

          “No matter how long?”

          “I know you are worth it,” he rubs your knee and turns to his drink. Even the naive nature of his kindness cannot allow you to love him even as you know he has already fallen. It is just a dream that Ronnie has, that these things, and you both, can last for an eternity. Lives are so fragile, born with frailty and end of weakness. They wait like a lonely house searching for another to live among its windows. He wins at France in July, he barrels into the garage, rips you until your chests are touching. He was the sun, beautiful, bright and you couldn't help but inch closer. You consign yourself to it eventually: kissing him and licking the sweet champagne off of his chapped lips. It is sharp beneath the bitter after tones of the alcohol. His fingers are trying at the zipper on your front as if he desires you here and now as you are and always were. You grab his hands, push them back towards his chest. You shake your head and he sighs, blushing and brightening at the cheeks.

          “I am sorry, Jacky,” he rests his head on your shoulder and your nose buries into his hair. You stay like this: wrapped in each other in the Lotus garage on the workbench. You close your eyes and pray, and you, Jacky Ickx, do pray: _please, let me win_. He craves you in your most innocent form: naked and wrapped in your infinite wisdom. You are in his hotel room and kisses you. He continues kissing you and kissing you without doing anything more. It is gentle, his lips are so silky against the agitated sheath of your neck. It is helping you to remember the electricity that once went coursed your heart. The delicate impressions that he places upon you are for you alone and not him, they trace an intricate path of sweeping poetry that pulsates through the roots of your hair. What he does is next for you alone. He reaches to undo your belt. You slap his hand again and he, again, is flushed and embarrassed. Switching it, you are backing him towards the headboard and reach for their waist line instead.

          “Let me touch you,” you whisper and their eyes are hooded with flickered ecstasy.

          He whispers, “Are you sure?” They are silent words promising the stillness of your soul that it is not alone. 

          You are honest because you will have complete control and will not imagine it is someone else. You do it for him, slide between his lips and toss his clothes to the floor about the bed, all because he does it for you. His back is arching, his hands gripping the sheets with knuckles that wish they were in your hair. But he is nervous to caress you, no matter how much he wants to. You are afraid of him doing it and find yourself as a piece of china in a metal palace. You are frightened that you’ll be just like Francois: using someone and imagining it is another. Ronnie is too kind for that. When he is close, his head tosses back, the column of his throat quivering and you have to dig your nails into his thighs to hold him from moving.

          “ _Knulla_ , Jacky.”

          There is your name again mixed with a swear, lingering and bathing on his tongue as if he is obsessed with the taste. He is shaking and reaches to strip off your shirt but again, you stop him. You shake your head and he accepts thus, tossing an arm over your stomach and tugging you closer. You stay like this. The whole night, throughout the hours you lay awake observing the colors replace themselves against the ceiling walls as Ronnie breathes over your neck and sends ripples of comfort to your soul. It could last forever: this. If only you could allow it. You do this often for him. He never asks you, but you do it for him. What is the use in life without a little pleasure? You wished that didn’t simply apply to others. The season ends, Colin signs Ronnie again and yourself included. In the off-season you visit one another and when not: you both call.

          “ _What are you doing, Jacky?_ ”

          “Reading, and you, Ronnie?”

          “ _Thinking of you._ ”

          “Be careful,” you warn, _remember I am the same wildfire and you may become burned_. Another time he calls and you remember it because of the dirty nature of it.

          “ _I want you, Jacky._ ”

          “Really, Ronnie?”

          “ _Yes, very badly_ ,” his words came out as a moan does.

          “Touch yourself then.”

          “ _No, I want you. Only you._ ”

          You shiver, quake at this and slip a hand down into your jeans.

          The season of 1975 begins. The car is a piece of shit. You kick it a lot in anger and are exhausted of retirements. “Stupid car,” you growl and Ronnie rolls his head in disappointment. The team changes to an older model and Ronnie is better than you in it. You both manage. You are proud of him. It is raining after Monza. The both of you are soaked to the bone and shivering. From the driver’s seat of a spare four wheels to get from hotel to track, you watch at him as he is in the passenger seat with his feet propped lazily on the dashboard. Due to his height he appears rather awkward. For an odd occurrence, you recall the fragrance he gives off in the mornings. It wasn’t as how most people describe it: the falling. You simply suddenly woke up just then while driving in the rain with him beside you and realized that you were home.

          “Why are you staring?”, his brows narrow on his forehead. You take your eyes off of the road for a second again dangerously. “Jacky? What is it?”, he is concerned now.

          Immediately you shoot the steering wheel to the right and pull over the car to a side road. You kiss him. He is surprised at first with your desperation but then your lips fall across his jaw and towards the flesh of his neck. A low groan escapes him and he shuts his eyes. You touch him as though he were the oxygen you needed to breathe. He ran his fingers through the tufts of your hair and the sound of his hitched breathing makes its way to your ears. Suddenly he is holding your face, his thumbs pressing over your cheeks. He is glaring into your eyes as if to say, _Darling, kiss me because you are safe and my lips know all the places you've been hurt; they can take it all away_. You make it back to your hotel room and as soon as the door shuts you have him pinned on the bed. His hands are roming your back, tracing the small of your lower posterior and the curve of your ass. Ronnie slows it down, you sense his vocal chords hum underneath your lips as you palm him through his jeans.

          “Are you certain?”

          “Yes.”

 _I want him_.

          He pushes you off him and climbs on top of you, stradling your hips and bringing a knee between your legs. His hands work every single button agonizingly slow, his lips constrain over every inch of revealed skin. You know, when he gets to your lower abdomen and is working his hands over your legs; You realize later, when he sends a hand at the back of your neck and pushes slowly into you; You remember nobody else but him. He doesn’t keep his eyes closed, he maintains their lock on every movement you make and his grip on the shoots of your hair. He is holding you so close you can feel his heartbeat through his bare chest. He murmurs it over and over, his breath falling in waves over your face as you shovel the hair out of his eyes.

          “You are beautiful,” he pants and his lips are on the column of your throat. “You are so beautiful, Jacky.” He makes you so breathless by reminding you to breathe. The touch of his fingertips created greater sound waves than echoes and words ever could construct. His mouth doesn’t ever respite, it splashes across your collarbone and over your chest, across the plains of your back and the paths and coves to your heart. You will remember for forever, years, decades, and centuries later, how it felt for him to remind you that he cares about you. You are growing weaker for him, for his hands on the base of your neck brushing your spine and none of which you had the willpower to refuse. He breathes it across your body, paints it over you: “You are beautiful.”

          You're grateful to be told this. And all you want is just to believe him. You tell him: “My heart beats beautifully in your hands.” He gasps, shaking against you and tumbles across your chest. He threads his fingers through your hair. He placed his hands on your mind before your waist and exquisite was a word he described you.

          “I love you,” and it is the first time anyone has ever said that to you. You pretend to be asleep, although the letters knot themselves in your bones. He comes to say that after every time you spend a night together. Reminds you, “Jacky Ickx, I love you.” There’s a mix of them in you, deep in your lungs, so you catch your breath because with everyone it gets stronger. You do not want what is left of people before to be exhaled away. You can say it without words but Ronnie wants to hear it. “Do you love me?”, he asks one day.

          You are silent, pallid and questioning. “I--”

          “--that is alright.” He cuts you off and pushes your head onto his chest, “We have time.”

          But he was just that type of person; the one that makes forever appear too short. It feels good to hear your name come from him, from anyone. Eventually you quit smoking because you didn’t need it anymore like you used to. Sometimes, when you’re alone you’ll light one and let it sit in the ashtray just so that you can have something left of them.

          Jackie Stewart visited the paddock in January 1976. He knocked on the garage door comically and you glanced up. You share a stale beer from the cabinet of tools left by a mechanic.

          He clears his throat, “Are you still signing with Lotus?”

          “No,” you shake your head and take another sip. “Starting with Wolf-Williams,” it is embarrassing to say that.

          Jackie raises a murky brow, “I’ve never heard of them.”

          “Me either but McLaren chose James Hunt over me.” _Regretfully,_ you think. 

          “Nice lad, I like him.” 

          You smirk playfully, “Everyone does.” You do too.

         Night is settling and it is growing quieter. The drink is gone and you both fill up conversation without truly knowing what you are talking about. Jackie sighs dramatically and peers off down the pit lane. “I heard about Donohue. Tragedy that it keeps on happening.”

          “Do not guilt me,” you snap. 

          “How can I not?” he replies bitterly, “Drivers keep dying and you do nothing.”

          You are growing hot with anger but shove it below your surface, “Do not do this, Jackie.”

          “I always will,” he shoots out. He cannot be your friend because he is pushy, a little stark and contrasting; you cannot be his friend because you are inconsiderate, frank and unforgiving. He treads away but flips around before he leaves. “I never said thank you.”

          You are confused and cock your head to the side, “What do you mean?”

          “After Jochen,” he nods and you remember holding him. “After . . . “, their name is spelled out in the sky and there is no use repeating it. He shuffles his feet and blinks at the ground dismally, “I never asked you if you were alright.”

          But does he know? That makes you secretly panic, does Jackie know how he felt? What he never said? Of course, only because you are Jacky Ickx you simply wave him away, “They were close to you, you deserved it more.” You pretend your never care, the saddest part was that you've made yourself believe it now. But you are lying because you are positive Jackie never had Francois in his bed. Something at the corner of Jackie’s mouth twitches as if he yearns to say something, as if he has a understanding. This doesn’t happen.

          “Good luck, baby-face,” he turns away and stalks down the paddock. Well down, you can comprehend that he knows everything. You lit up a cigarette that night while Ronnie is visiting Mario.

          You think of Francois Cevert. The sky doesn’t make it any better.

          You continue to visit Ronnie, see him constantly even though you are on separate teams. One day you pan your eyes over to the Ferrari garage and Niki has his arms crossed, leaning against the cement wall next to the track. He seems unmoved and still as James speaks to him. They are laughing. You cannot help but think how different these things are portrayed. Will anyone ever know how they laughed together?

          You lean over to Ronnie who is polishing his helmet and arched on the barrier next to you. “Do they hate one another?”, you ask. He chuckles and glances quickly at you as though you’ve made a joke.

          “Not at all.” You didn’t believe him until you saw James reach a hand over and push on Niki’s chest, press him against the wall and flatten the creases of his uniform with his hand. You hear Niki chiding him as James licks his thumb and swipes a bit of dirt off the side of the other’s nose.

          You smile cheekily, “I guess not.”

          Ronnie never doesn't reminding you that he loves you. He never once doesn’t mention it after making love. You wish it wasn’t a string of words, pretty and glittering to be worn like a set of pearls. You revel in the way he touches you, makes you squirm and quiver in his grasp. 

          “The car is running terribly,” he sighs and Mario hums in agreement. You’ve never seen him look so dejected. The lines on his face are showing age and his mouth is wrinkling in discomfort at his own annoyance. After first practice at Monza, 1978, Ronnie barreled into your room. He didn’t wait to be let it, he shot inside and plopped himself on his behind over your bed.

          “I want you to fuck me,” he demanded. You wasted no time and he withered beneath you soon afterwards. You both lay in this, the scent of sex, sweat, motor oil and, well, something sweet and very Ronnie. You are too tangled and tired to unknot his strings but there is a deeper emotion to him. He is louder, as if he is trying to mask what he really has to say. You kiss the bruises on his legs from the crash he had during practice. Eventually it comes out when you are brushing your fingertips slowly over his chest: “Will you ever say it?”

          You trace it on his skin but he doesn’t know that. He sighs and turns over on his side to turn off the light. He faces away from you and shuts his eyes as if knowing that you will never reply. But you do. You lay silently and watch light come in through the blinds. You wonder why you are so afraid and, yet, you seem to always know why. You don’t see him for another day, only on the paddock after second practice. He isn’t avoiding you, he promises, he is just busy. You don’t believe him. Saturday night you don’t sleep, you watch the stars fade in and out and think: how remarkable is it to see him everywhere even when he is not there. Maybe you have convinced yourself that you are ready for it: that you can finally say it. The track is busy, pulsating and sweltering this afternoon at Monza. Your helmet is underneath your arm and Ronnie is appearing stern at the end of the track, you might say even a little worried. You approach him just as Mario heads down the grid. He is looking picturesquely, staring at the sky with his neck tilted back and you can just see the fading marks you gave him on his throat. He notices you as you approach but doesn't move towards you, his sunglasses are shielding his eyes.

          “Can I speak with you?”, your voice sounds timid, shaky and shy. That has never happened before. Perhaps it’s because you care too much. He hesitates and then nods, following you to the gate. “I’ve never said it before because I do not needs words to explain it to you. Am I not enough?”

          Ronnie shook his head, his hair is rustling in the wind and his mouth is a thin, unnoticeable line. “If it is just words, why cannot you say it then?” There is a shout from the marshall and he moves off from the wall, “We have to go.”

          “Please, Ronnie--”

          He swipes your hand off of his wrist as though it is just dust on a marble mantlepiece. “Jacky,” he exhales slowly, sharply, “stop it.” The glasses hide the prick of pain his eyes that you know is there. You stand in the grass and follow him leave, you want him to turn around, to say something. When you watched him leave, it wasn’t just Ronnie, it was your dreams that you saw stride away. But what are your dreams, one may ask: find Ronnie Peterson, that is the answer. You climbed in your car and decided it wasn’t worth it to lose him so you clarify to yourself that you will say it. You have to say it. You search from him on the grid to no avail. _It will be a mystery why love forgot us_. 

          Seconds into the start your foot slams the break and see shiny debris fly into the air. Out of your car, a fire is flowing the distance with thick black plumes. You run and find yourself standing behind a Lotus car with fear pumping through your heart when James reaches into the flames. Ronnie up yanked from his seat onto the track.

          “Don’t look down, oh Ronnie, _please_ don’t look down,” James begs him and their hands can barely keep his head steady. There was only one thing you feared in that moment. Unable to resist, you recognize the bits of bone and blood seeping through the torn legs of his white racing overalls. His head is rolling back wearily and James is pushing on his cheeks sharply with his fingers to stimulate him. White with panic you attempt to maintain some type of pose which is something you’ve never experienced. You eventually stumble to the gravel and peer down at Ronnie’s expression. It will haunt you. It will bury itself in your mind. The pale, sweating complexion and his eyes, his blue eyes aren’t wide with pain but _fear_. They are so giant, and so, so _scared_. That is all Ronnie can think of too, you know it, not of you or of his family or anything but how frightened he was. Roars are coming out from their tortured mind and the panic is making them roll, their chest heaving.

 _It is okay_ , you stroke his hair and he trembles underneath your hand.

 _It is alright_ , you are helping to wrap the burns on his left arm as he is starting to whimper.

 _Do not worry_ , you wipe the sweat beading down his temple.

 _Calm down_ , you allow him to grip your forearm so tight that you can almost feel the veins popping beneath the shallow skin.

          You lie to him because it is only thing you know how to do. In other ways, you are lying to yourself because you don't want to admit what you already know. Sid Watkins shoves you away and you trip into the dirt with scraped hands. You stare at the blood pooling on your palms and wonder: _is it is my own or his_. He is carried away on a stretcher, his free arm latches to your wrist at the last moment, tugs you along to your feet like a lost doll. It is cold and stark, the acceptance that is there, frozen in the creases of his features and your memory. You know that they realize what will happen. 

          His eyes held out a hand to yours.

          And you reach out and take it.

          You say, “I love you” with your hands alone. 

          And he replies, “Jacky, I know” with only his heart.

          If you believed in real love: this is it. Only here--only now. You hope he doesn't ever doubt your love because it is as real as it always was. 

          Then as quick as it occurred, it is gone. The bold, soft knowledge in his eyes rolls away and you don't feel him ever again. The electricity that came through your fingertips is gone. You only witness them load Ronnie and his eyes shut in exhaustion and pain. You want to shout his name, to say it as he did yours; but you don’t. You know; _god_ , you know, that they understand that was the last time. You never completely feel someone until you lose them. Your tired eyes become like fire and it will take you a lifetime to forget how they once lit the room. You wish you had held onto him longer, fed his flame through night and day. You wouldn’t lose them this time. You wouldn’t lose yourself. Everything is fleeting. The last time you saw him, both your hands were so full of him and you didn't know it then but it would be the last time you felt another's soul. 

          You expect it, so you do not sleep that night. The waiting, again. Colin phones Mario even though he found out in the airport to see him. You find out twelve hours after, one of the last to know. You immediately slam the phone down on the receiver and suddenly your fist goes through the wall, the mirror shatters onto the floor. You are screaming at him, you are shouting at him and you cannot hold it in. It explodes, comes out violent and heavy as you’re ripping out your hair with bleeding knuckles. You taste metal in your throat and you hadn’t realized you were biting your tongue. All of your clothes are thrown about the room.

          _“Why are you frightened, Jacky?”_

_“I am scared to touch happiness.”_

          Suddenly, you pause, collapse onto the carpet in the corner and press your hands to your ears. You heard his voice in your head and you cannot close your eyes because you see the terror everytime, floating up from the back of your memory and the darkness about it. _We were meant to go together; knot your fingers in mine._ You look up and peer into the dark room half expecting him to be standing here. Your eyes adjust and in the end, you were just a human drunk on the idea that only love could heal you. You'll never understand why the universe would bring two people together just to tear them apart. All you wanted to be loved in a way that calmed the roar in your soul. You died in a way that made it appear that you were still living. 

          “What’s tomorrow without you?”, you cry to the ghost in your head.

          He smiles and fixes your clothes, “Another day.”

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES:  
> \- Ronnie Peterson's second year in F1 was 1973.  
> \- Ronnie Peterson, James Hunt and Niki Lauda were all friends from their F2 and F3 days.  
> \- One of the races Ronnie Peterson won in 1974 was Monza.  
> \- Ronnie Peterson and Jacky Ickx were teammates from 1974 - 1975.  
> \- Colin Chapman is the head of Lotus Team.  
> \- Ken Tyrell is the head of the Tyrell team.  
> \- Jacky Ickx was nearly guaranteed the slot on McLaren when Emerson Fittipaldi ended his contract, but they ended up giving the drive to James Hunt instead.  
> \- During first practice on Monza, 1978, Ronnie Peterson crashed and got bruises all over his legs.  
> \- The starter gun went off early during Monza, 1978, and it resulted in a crash. Ronnie Peterson shattered both of his legs and was pulled from his car by James Hunt. He died of an embolism.  
> \- Mario Andretti was on the way to visit Ronnie Peterson when he found on when he landed in the airport that he was dead. 
> 
>  
> 
> TRANSLATIONS:  
> \- Knulla: Fuck
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading.


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